I’m standing in a grassy field next to some train tracks in midtown Toronto. Power lines are buzzing above me against a darkening sky. I’m dressed all in black with a balaclava over my head. There’s a guy kneeling in front of me with my dick in his mouth. I’m holding a steak knife to his throat.
Twenty minutes earlier, we had met at a seedy 24-hour diner a few blocks away. I’m sitting on one of the orange vinyl stools at the counter, staring into a cup of undrinkable coffee when a short, slight man in his mid-40s dressed in jeans and a denim jacket comes through the door.
He clocks me at the counter, but does a quick survey of the place to confirm that I’m the one he’s there to meet. Realizing I’m the only other person there (besides the condiment-spattered cook sitting on a cardboard box behind the counter), he sits down next to me and flashes a nervous smile, before glancing at the cook.
“A coffee?” he says, as if he’s genuinely unsure whether this is possible. The cook grunts, stands and drags himself to the glass carafe that’s probably been sitting on the burner since yesterday.
The cook pours a cup and sets it down so roughly on the counter that a bit spills out. He doesn’t bother to wipe it up. He just turns, grabs two creamers from a bowl next to the coffee machine, drops them next to the cup and waddles back to his box.
“So,” I say. “How are you feeling?”
“Nervous,” the guy says. “But ready to do this.”
“So I’m going to go ahead of you,” I say. “Give me about a 10-minute head start and then you can follow. If you see anyone walking into the field, wait an extra five minutes for them to pass.”
“Okay,” he says.
“You’re good then?” I say, standing.
He pauses, and swallows.
“Yes,” he says softly.
“Great,” I say, punching him softly in the shoulder. “See you on the other side.”
I toss some change on the counter for my coffee, head out the door and start making my way towards the train tracks where we’re going to do the scene. As I’m walking, I finger the crumpled pages folded in my pocket. I’ve already memorized them, but I brought them just in case I felt nervous and needed to look them over.
Two weeks earlier, he had sent me the whole scenario by email. With complex role-play, I often ask clients to send a written description in advance, both so I can have a chance to study it and to give them a way to put their thoughts in order.
Usually clients send me three or four sentences. This guy sent eight double-spaced pages, including dialogue. He’d even given it a title, “Impending Darkness.”
Since my earliest days in the sex business, I’ve always included something about doing unusual requests and fetishes in my profile. This guy (he hadn’t even given me his name, let alone a pseudonym) had called me from a pay phone a month earlier to ask about my ad.
He told me he wants to be accosted in a public place, held at knifepoint, and forced to give a blowjob. He’s very “discreet” (code word for closeted) so he doesn’t actually want to be caught. It’s mainly a rape fantasy, with a tiny dash of exhibitionism thrown in.
I’m immediately curious, as it seems like a scenario that could put my performance chops to the test. His script actually includes a back story for my character. Apparently I’m a practised mugger, robbing people on a regular basis. The scenario is that I initially want to rob him, but then when I see he doesn’t have enough money I get mad and force him to suck my dick.
Since it’s in public, we need to find an excuse for why we might be doing what we’re doing in case we’re seen. As a precaution, I’ve suggested that if we do get caught, we say that we’re actors working on a short film and wanted to explore the reality of the characters.
It’s a good excuse for the knife. But the blowjob will be more complicated to explain. But in the event we do get caught, the person is likely to be so confused that we just need to blurt out some quick excuse and then run in different directions to escape.
I’d spent a few days biking around, looking at different locations, but this one seemed like the best choice. It’s not a proper park, so it’s less likely to have evening dog walkers passing through. If anything, there might be teenagers, doing whatever. But since it’s around dinner time, it’s a bit too early for that.
I cross under a graffiti-scribbled bridge, walk through a parking lot and then pass through a gap in a chain-link fence. From this point on, it’s just a sort of empty space; train tracks on one side and the blank wall of some sort of long building that looks like a disused warehouse on the other. It’s mostly just gravel and sand in the middle, but patches of grass have sprung up on either side. There are a few scrubby bushes near the train tracks, which I’ve decided in advance will be my hiding place.
Masked by the leaves, I turn back in the direction I came and crouch to the ground. Dusk is setting in and the first traces of stars are visible between the clouds. I take the knife out of my jacket pocket, put on a pair of leather gloves, pull a balaclava over my head and wait, staring back at the break in the fence . . .
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